<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>there’s sun in the crook of your arm by AnnaofAza</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29495757">there’s sun in the crook of your arm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza'>AnnaofAza</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fluff, Ice Skating, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Prince Keith (Voltron), Secret Identity, Sheithlentines 2021, Shy Shiro (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:48:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29495757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Just then, his blade catches on a rough patch of ice. Shiro pitches forward, hearing a few gasps before falling hard, nose stinging with more than cold. </p><p>“Are you all right?” </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith/Shiro (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sheithlentines 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>there’s sun in the crook of your arm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="https://twitter.com/Not_The_Alex">@not_the_Alex!</a> I loved everything on your list, especially the winter/snow date and/or a royalty/historical AU bits! &lt;3 I was inspired by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, who apparently got to know each other at skating parties!</p><p>Title is from Grace Schulman's “Crossing the Square.”</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You don’t have to skate with anyone you don’t like.” </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“But you must be polite. Don’t get up to skate with someone immediately after you reject someone else.” </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>“You may ask, but don’t be too forward. Refer to their escort, but keep your eyes on the person you wish to skate with. Offer your arm before you both get on the ice.” </p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“A few turns is enough. If you wish to get a hot drink or refreshments, you may offer them a seat at our tent. If you wish to go out, you must ask me and your partner’s escort.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“No holding hands.” </p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“And remember, you have to show your face for at least two hours.” </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>Across the carriage, his aunt sighs. “Takashi, this is important. You wanted to be outside instead of cooped up in a stifling teahouse or cramped parlor. This is what I could arrange.” </p><p>“I know.” Shiro can still remember the childhood days of utter boredom, watching kids laugh past his window, hearing sleigh bells jingle in the open air. His health is better now, but he’s still very much the precious only son of the Shiroganes. </p><p>“So this is a good opportunity, and who knows? You might meet someone you like.” </p><p>Shiro turns his face to the window. He’s never been in love, and doubts very much he will. </p><p>Outside, he hears the crowds, the scratches of blades against ice. In spite of himself, he <em> does </em> feel excited. His aunt is right; this would be better than a room with a ticking clock and uncomfortable furniture. </p><p>But once he steps outside, Shiro feels as conspicuous as a peacock. He’s bundled in a fitted overcoat trimmed with snow-white fur, parted strategically to reveal a deep blue waistcoat and starched white shirt. His gloves are calf-skin, also lined with fur, with his cap tilted—affixed with pins that jab Shiro’s scalp—at what the seamstress called a jaunty angle. </p><p>And as customary, a gold brooch pinned to his coat’s lapels, marking him as a noble. His father’s, he’s told, one of the very few things that escaped the pawn shop and debt collectors. </p><p>Shiro kneels down to fasten the skates to his boots. They’re curved at the top, carved to look like wolf heads howling at the moon. That had least been a battle he’d won; there had been suggestions of swans or lions or even dragons. </p><p>“I don’t want to look ostentatious,” he remembers saying. “I want to at least look a little like myself.”</p><p>But the skates won’t make much difference, Shiro now thinks. He feels very much like a show horse, and the way his aunt practically shoves him onto the ice seals it. </p><p>He does his best to avoid the curious gazes of the nobles he’s seen a few times at parties. They’re all dapper, every curl in place and every button glistening in the sunlight, doing their best to look carefree and whimsical. Maybe he’s not being fair. Maybe there is someone—</p><p>Just then, his blade catches on a rough patch of ice. He pitches forward, hearing a few gasps before falling <em> hard </em>, nose stinging with more than cold. </p><p>Shiro brings up a hand to his face and checks it, relieved he’s at least not bleeding in front of what feels like the entire kingdom. </p><p>His launch is going splendidly, it seems. </p><p>“Are you all right?” </p><p>Shiro looks up to see a young man, offering a gloved hand to him. His eyes—blue like sapphires—are wide with concern.</p><p>“It’s only my pride that’s wounded,” Shiro tries to joke, but allows the man to pull him to his feet. </p><p>The stranger smiles. “It looks like your skate’s come untied; perhaps that accounts for your accident.” </p><p>Shiro looks down; one of his laces is indeed trailing on the ice. “That may be it,” he admits, beginning to kneel. </p><p>“Let me,” the stranger says. </p><p>He bends down to tie Shiro’s skate. Looking down, Shiro sees a deep red scarf tied around his neck, dangling onto the ice. His skates are scuffed, trouser hems almost trailing on the ground, wayward strands of hair blown across his forehead. His aunt would be horrified. </p><p>“Thank you,” Shiro says. </p><p> “It’s no trouble,” the man replies; there's a trace of an accent Shiro's never heard before. “I’ve had worse falls, and in front of more people, besides.” </p><p>“That <em>does</em> make me feel better,” Shiro says, and is pleased to hear a laugh. “Forgive me, but we haven’t been introduced?” </p><p>The man smiles, a bit hesitantly. “Keith.” </p><p>No family name, Shiro thinks. The stranger also lacks the self-assurance—arrogance, he might say—to drop his title, and that in and of itself is refreshing. His hands, though hidden by gloves, seem deft and capable, with broad shoulders and the faint slash is visible on his cheek. </p><p>He glances at Keith’s coat. “Are you from Marmora? That’s a long way off.” </p><p>Keith’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and Shiro tries to hide his smile. Surely anyone could see the insignia embroidered on his lapel.  </p><p>“Ah, yes,” Keith says. “Marmora.”</p><p>His cheeks bloom brighter red. It’s Shiro’s turn to smile, and he finds it easy to do. “I’ve always wanted to go there, but I was never allowed to travel. I hear it’s much colder than here.” </p><p>Keith nods. “It’s rare to be outside for long this time of year, and it’s dark besides. We don’t see the sun for months.”</p><p>The thought intrigues him. “And what do you do?” </p><p>As soon as Shiro says it, he thinks it a foolish question indeed, but Keith doesn’t laugh. “We light a lot of lanterns and stay indoors. The winters are long, so we hold plays and dances and contests; a lot of the guards keep sharp and hold mini melees, archery competitions, spar in the hall.” </p><p><em> Guards</em>, Shiro thinks. That would explain the scar, the wide shoulders. </p><p>At the corner of his eye, he sees his aunt frown and whisper to one of her companions; he should have murmured a polite dismissal and moved on by now. She is too well-schooled to shout at him like a fishwife in the market, but the raise of her eyebrows says more than any scold. </p><p>Reluctantly, Shiro pulls away. “I wish you could tell me more, but I cannot be like this,” he confesses. </p><p>Keith gives him a small smile. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”</p>
<hr/><p>His aunt does not say a word to him on the ride home.</p>
<hr/><p>At the dinner table, Shiro’s handed a letter, one of the many missives from suitors he does not know. He puts it down beside his plate and continues eating. </p><p>As soon as he came of age, his portrait was painted and sent to as many eligible suitors as possible. After that, letters arrived from seemingly every corner of the kingdom, and Shiro was made to reply to them all. Some exchanges went along for a while, but many had fizzled out within less than a month. He knows full well there is no true intimacy in these exchanges; his letters had been resealed more often than not, with his own tutor reading over them for mistakes.</p><p>One of them is a long-time correspondent, the best picking of the bunch. A small kingdom and faraway, his aunt said, but a <em> prince, </em>a future king, all for Shiro! How could he do better?</p><p>“Takashi,” his aunt says at last, “who was that from?”</p><p>He glances at the envelope. “Prince Yorak,” Shiro says mechanically. </p><p>“Open it,” his aunt commands, putting down her fork. </p><p>Shiro breaks the seal and reads, trying to ignore her attempting to see the contents over his shoulder. It is a simple message, saying he is visiting Atlas “soon” and that he is “eager to meet his acquaintance.” </p><p>He puts the paper down, having lost his appetite. Such a thing means another suitor will be scrutinizing him, stretches of chaperoned walks in the garden, fitful negotiating at the dinner table. Furthermore, he’s never met Prince Yorak or seen his portrait, and is not exactly looking forward to it. His letters barely span one page, brief and without much humor or personality. </p><p>Shiro’s tried to think charitably. Perhaps Yorak is not a talented writer. Or he is being spied upon for the contents and cannot truly say what he feels. Or he barely knows his letters and can only put a few sentences he’s memorized to paper. But such thoughts do little to inspire. </p><p>“He is interested and you could do worse,” his aunt says, as if she can read his thoughts. </p><p><em> That’s hardly a ringing endorsement, </em>Shiro thinks, putting aside the letter. </p><p>“I want to go skating tomorrow,” he says instead. </p><p>His aunt sighs. “You’re hoping to see the boy, aren’t you?” </p><p>Shiro does his best to look neutral.</p><p>“Takashi,” his aunt says more gently. “The firstborn has a whole family’s responsibility on their shoulders and that’s how it’s always been. If there were different circumstances, you would be able to go with that boy. But simply too much is at stake. Do you understand?” </p><p>Shiro looks around the room. It used to be grand, his aunt often said, filled with furniture of carved wood and imported fabrics, paintings from all over the world, servants to fan them if the weather got too warm. The house has been in the family for generations, and too many dowries and mismanagement and falling out of favors has brought it down. </p><p>And if he does not marry well, they could lose what little they have. </p><p>Shiro glances at the letter and feels the urge to toss it into the fireplace. “I do,” he mutters, and focuses on his meal.</p>
<hr/><p>The next morning, Shiro dresses warmly and orders a carriage. </p><p>The stablehand is unaccustomed to him giving orders, and at first, stares at him blankly. But soon enough, he rushes to obey, and Shiro’s off to the lake again, leaning forward, heart pounding with giddy dread that his aunt would run out of the house and stop him. </p><p>But Keith is not there. </p><p>He swallows his disappointment.  It’s not as if they really talked or even agreed to meet again. How could he be so foolish?</p><p>Still, Shiro directs the carriage to head back; he doesn’t feel very much like skating today.</p>
<hr/><p>A few days later, Shiro begs to be able to post some of his aunt’s letters. At the very least, it will get him out of the house. </p><p>His aunt agrees, even allowing him to go without a chaperone, and Shiro feels a new spring in his step as he strolls through the town. Snow is covering the roofs and the ground, the sunlight making every surface dazzle in tiny crystals. Shiro sighs, raising his head to feel the slight chill on his face when he sees a familiar figure by the sluggishly flowing fountain, the same scarf around his neck. </p><p>“Keith!" he calls, without thinking. </p><p>Keith looks up, surprised but pleased. “Hello. Do you live nearby?” </p><p>“Yes,” he says. For a moment, Shiro considers telling him he went to the lake earlier in hopes of seeing him, but dismisses the idea. “I’ve never seen you in town before. Are you…?” </p><p>“I’m only here for a few days at most,” Keith admits. “I’m supposed to be taking care of some… familial obligations. You?” </p><p>Shiro holds up the envelopes tied with string as an answer. </p><p>“Lord Adam,” Keith reads—this surprises Shiro, since guards in his experience do not know their letters; perhaps it is different in Marmora—raising his eyebrows. “And Lord Curtis?” </p><p>Shiro blushes. “My aunt’s letters, not mine.” </p><p>“Not sweethearts of yours?” </p><p>“No,” he says quickly. His aunt likes to have a few options at her fingertips: <em> Don’t count on just one person, Takashi.  </em></p><p>He wants to toss them in the nearest snowbank, but instead offers Keith the crook of his elbow. “You were talking about Marmora the last time we met. I’d like to know more, if you wish.”</p><p>With a smile, Keith takes his arm.</p><p>Shiro finds he loves to hear Keith talk about his homeland, a place Shiro's only read about in books and heard in gossip. The winters are cold and long and dark, but the summers make up for it—the sun shining at all hours, the festivals with fresh flowers and dancing, feasts from morning to night with dishes like strongly-smelling preserved fish and blood pudding. His aunt would find those dishes appalling, even barbaric, but Shiro’s so curious that he wonders if he can send for an order through a courier. </p><p>“It’s mostly stews and potatoes here,” Shiro says, “especially now that it’s cold. It rains all the time, too, so it’s rare that the sun is shining like this." </p><p>Keith nods. "This time of year, it's rare that the sun is out, or even light enough to skate by back home. Too cold, really. But there would be no fear of ice cracking; it's so thick in some areas that we harvest it, to keep things cool in the warmer months." </p><p>Shiro tries to imagine it: people sawing through ice, building it up like bricks. "Have you done it?" </p><p>"Only once. I was a child and went too close and fell through the ice." Keith shivers at the memory. "Luckily one of my uncles pulled me out before I went completely under. Did you know, it's not the cold that quite kills you? It's the current that sweeps you under thicker ice."</p><p>Shiro finds himself shuddering too. </p><p>"Did you get into any scrapes like that?" Keith asks. </p><p>"No," Shiro says, with some regret. “Mostly it was being in the house and going to school.” He doesn't want to clutter up the day with complaints, living the life of a wealthy family's son in public and wondering about the state of winter stores in private. </p><p>“I was a boring child,” he adds, with a hesitant chuckle.  </p><p>"I'm sure you weren't," Keith says charitably. "My parents, though, would have liked you; I was a hellion." </p><p>Shiro laughs a bit breathlessly at the curse. "Well, my aunt may consider me a trial." </p><p>"Your aunt? Are you especially up to mischief around her?" </p><p>"My parents died in an accident when I was young. It was my aunt who brought me up." He waves a hand over Keith's apologies, then reaches up to briefly fiddle with his pin. “My mother used to say her sister was the wild one. I find it hard to believe.” </p><p>“My mother was wild, too—is still,” Keith says. “Family legend says she used to sneak over the neighboring wall to meet my father, and before her betrothal could be announced, it was discovered she and my father had eloped in secret. My uncle was furious, but he let the marriage stand; she’s stubborn as a wild hog, he says.” </p><p>Shiro can’t imagine his aunt giving him that sort of leeway. “They must be happy.” </p><p>“Marrying for love is rare,” Keith admits. “Our land is mostly made of alliances of lords with their own armies. It’s much calmer now, but there used to be a lot of warfare.” </p><p>Shiro can’t imagine that. Starvation, yes, or being on the streets, but not blades that would cut you clean on the battlefield, escaping death with skills some were lucky to know. “You said it’s calmer. Did you ever have to fight?” </p><p>“A few times, but Mamoran r—uh, some are trained with weapons from childhood.” For some reason, Keith colors and speaks faster: “When you complete your training, your comrades form a line in the hall and bang spears on the ground as you walk through them, then you receive your warrior’s badge.” </p><p>That explains the insignia, Shiro thinks. He was right; Keith is some sort of guard after all. His aunt would most <em> definitely </em>not be pleased. “Do you have a specialty?” </p><p>“A blade, any sort, really.”</p><p>“The only blade I’ve seen is in the kitchen,” Shiro admits. He’s imagining Keith swinging around a sword on a tall stallion with a gleaming mane, like the tales of the old, and gets a pleasant shiver up his spine. </p><p>Keith seems to notice: "Are you cold? Let's go inside somewhere." </p><p>Shiro dutifully leads them to an inn, which is almost empty for the day, where they sit near a roaring fireplace. Keith pries off his gloves and puts down two coins for cocoa with before Shiro can reach for his purse. The server takes the money, then looks twice at them before hurrying off. Shiro inwardly sighs, wondering if he’s been recognized and if they should go to a quieter place. </p><p>But he’d have to explain, as he’s never been a good liar, and if he tells Keith who he is, then he’d be a lord and Keith—someone who is supposed to be a nobody, and all he wants to be is another man enjoying the weather and a cup of cocoa with good company. </p><p>Yet they only have time to take a few sips when the chiming in the middle of town square begins. </p><p>"The clock,” Shiro says, mildly alarmed at the time; he has a terrible scolding awaiting him at home. </p><p>Luckily, Keith's standing, draining the rest of his drink in one swallow. "I must go. I have a... family meeting." </p><p>"I must get back too," Shiro says. </p><p>They exchange goodbyes and Keith practically rushes out the door and into a small black carriage. Shiro only has a moment to watch him go before noticing something on the table. </p><p>Keith's gloves.</p><p>Shiro slips them into his pocket. If nothing else, he decides, he has an excuse to see Keith again.</p>
<hr/><p>Much to his relief, Shiro gets only a lecture about tardiness.</p><p>It is when Shiro retires to his room that he realizes he’s forgotten to mail the letters.</p>
<hr/><p>Shiro absolutely intends to complete his task, but finds himself seeing Keith again and again. </p><p>They end up walking together, sometimes in the town and sometimes its outskirts, simply talking. Shiro does tell Keith of his lonely childhood, and learns Keith also grew up with no one his age, only uncles and older warriors. Like Shiro's, Keith’s had been filled with love tinged with duty and obligations, something in the future engraved in stone that Keith refuses to speak of. </p><p>Shiro does not further pry. None of them want to be burdened with anything but the present. </p><p>And like Keith, he finds these moments together the youth that seemed to spill through his hands, laughing often. He has had companions before, but none of his choice, and has always been kept inside and still for his health, for decorum, for a list of excuses Shiro’s always found stifling. </p><p>It is in the woods when Shiro spies a clump of snow and playfully throws a handful at Keith, as he’s seen children do in the village. Keith returns in kind, and soon, their shrieks reach as tall as the town buildings as they race and duck and gasp. Cold slushes hit him in the chest many times—and once, to his face—but he does not care, pleased that he's at least getting in a few strikes of his own. </p><p>Suddenly, Shiro’s boot hits something—a rock, a twisted root, a block of ice—and he pitches forward, taking Keith down with him. </p><p>With a thump, they fall into a powdery snowbank, and Shiro looks up to see Keith straddling him most indecently, cheeks bright pink, lips parted.  </p><p>And he’s kissing Keith. </p><p>Keith’s lips are warm against his. It’s his first time kissing anyone, and the books have been right and wrong all at once. His heart beats faster than it had been while running, and he feels strangely clumsy, gripping Keith’s arms like a drunken sailor; yet, this feels more certain than a bagful of coins. </p><p>When they pull away, Keith’s gaze goes up to the trees, then flushes deep red again. “I should not have… I’m happy I did, but my family will be displeased.”</p><p>“Mine as well,” Shiro echoes, lips still tingling. </p><p>“And I have to go soon,” Keith confesses. “Then, once I leave, I don’t think I’ll be able to come back.”</p><p>Fantasies of meeting Keith behind buildings, in out of the way places, disappear before Shiro’s eyes. They could write, but he suspects their letters will not reach each other. The only freedom Shiro imagines is after his aunt’s house, yet that requires a marriage, and he cannot see anyone being pleased with such a correspondence. The songs suggest they could run, but where? Shiro cannot bear to abandon his aunt and their crushing debt, or take Keith away from his own family. </p><p>For a long moment, they simply sit in the snowbank, clothes getting damp, before Keith places a hand on his knee. </p><p>“We never did get to skate,” he says softly.</p>
<hr/><p>It is almost sunset, so the lake is empty. </p><p>Keith had ducked into a store and returned with two pairs of skating blades, then rented a sled. Shiro’s heart still aches at Keith frittering away his likely poor salary on this, but Keith would not accept his coin, jaw clenched stubbornly until Shiro allowed the shining objects to slip back into his purse. </p><p>The ice glistens with the fading sunlight, as Shiro offers his arm once more to Keith, perhaps for the last time. Keith is unsteady on the blades and leans heavily into Shiro's arm. He's so close that Shiro can feel a button press into his chest, the solid limbs against his own, the faint huffs when Keith trods on a bit of ice, yet he dares not kiss Keith again, lest he finds he cannot stop.</p><p>“I still have your gloves, the ones you left at the inn,” Shiro says instead. They’re well-made, black leather with almost invisible stitching, with the same insignia from Keith’s jacket lapel. Shiro had hidden them behind some old schoolbooks, knowing exactly what his aunt would say if she found them. </p><p>Keith shakes his head, wobbling a little on his blades. “No, you must have them.” </p><p>“My hands are too large,” Shiro says, raising his right as proof. </p><p>Keith reaches up and lays his own hand against his so that they’re palm to palm. “So they are,” he murmurs. “But please keep them.”</p><p>“Then you must have...” Shiro hesitates, then unfastens his pin and drops it into Keith's startled hand.</p><p>He lifts it close to his face, and to Shiro's surprise, Keith’s lips part as if in shock. It’s gold, yes, but very tiny; smaller than his littlest finger’s nail. “Sh—”</p><p>Shiro’s skate strikes ice, and with a lightning-sharp crack, he falls. </p><p>The water pulls him down, nearly below the ice before he manages to snatch at a jagged piece of ice. He can hear Keith yell, as wave after cold wave blasts him, threatening to push him under, the chill seeping every bit of warmth from his body. His boots and blades are heavy underneath him, and he tries to kick, hoping to relieve some of the weight, but they will not come off. </p><p>“Shiro!” Keith screams, then, “Get help. Quickly!” </p><p>“My prince—” </p><p>“Get help now! That’s an order! You, hold onto me, and you, hold onto him. Quickly!” </p><p>Hands come down and pull at his arms. Shiro kicks, gasping from the cold and the water slapping with the full force of a soldier against his body, as Keith slowly but surely hauls him up.</p><p><em> Oh, </em> Shiro thinks deliriously, <em> Keith is strong</em>.</p><p>Shiro finds himself heaving on the shore, and a troupe of men surrounding Keith, one whisking a heavy cloak around him, another thrusting a flask in his hands, two holding Keith by the shoulders and asking if he’s all right. </p><p>“That was foolish, if you don’t mind me saying, Your Highness,” someone is saying. </p><p>Keith bats his hand off. “Regris, enough. Illun isn’t back yet; what if we had waited?” </p><p>“Your mother would have had my head if you were pulled under, too,” Regris grouses, but looks at Shiro, dripping wet and soaked to the skin. “Are you all right?”</p><p>Shiro manages a nod, pulling the cloak closer to his body. “Keith, you saved me,” he begins, but something pings in his mind. “Your Highness?”</p><p>Keith winces, then nods. “Shirogane,” he says. </p><p>To think of it, Shiro’s never given Keith his name. “How did you…?”</p><p>“Your pin,” Keith unfastens it from his lapel and points to the tiny etching. “Your family crest. I recognized it from your name seal on your letters.” </p><p>“My letters?” Shiro says. Perhaps the cold has numbed his head. </p><p>Regris chokes, and Keith shoots him a glare before turning back to Shiro and pointing to himself. “Yorak. Of Marmora.”</p><p>“Oh,” Shiro says, then, <em> “Oh.” </em> </p><p>Of course. Keith’s fine gloves. His guarded childhood. All the men. His freely spent coin. <em> Your Highness</em>. “Did you know this whole time?”</p><p>Keith shakes his head, a bit more frantically. “I only thought to just see what Takashi Shirogane was like before I met him, but I kept running into you. I never dreamed you’d be the man I was supposed to marry.”</p><p>“Well, here I am,” Shiro says, a bit foolishly. He looks down at the flask; he’s never tasted alcohol, and perhaps this situation is appropriate. “But <em> Keith </em>? Is that some sort of nickname? Or an alias?” </p><p>“No. The royal Marmoran custom is to have a warrior name and a common name. I go by my warrior name back home,” Keith ducks his head. “I… forgive me for saying this, but you’re more exciting than your letters.”</p><p>Shiro finds himself laughing. “You are, too. I confess my aunt and my tutor had a hand in them.” </p><p>“One of my uncles, my mother’s advisor, dictated mine to me,” Keith confesses. “I’m sorry; I was never interested in suitors, but everyone is always looking to expand our alliance.” </p><p><em> The man I was supposed to marry. </em>“So that was your family’s plan? For us to be married?” </p><p>“Yes, but I do not hold you to any promise, if you didn’t wish…” </p><p>Shiro silences him by kissing him again, and Keith clutches at him, despite his dripping clothes and ice-cold hands. Behind him, Regris and the other guards are averting their gazes.</p><p>Dizzyingly, Shiro wonders if Marmora is quite as insistent on chaperones as here. </p><p>“So this is your wish?” Keith asks softly, still clasping his hands in his. </p><p>Shiro smiles. “Of course,” he says. “We have quite a story to tell my aunt.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>